


Two Coins

by Ronnen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Battle Scenes, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff, High Fantasy, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Near Future, Possibility of Alternate Endings, Post-Trespasser, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronnen/pseuds/Ronnen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"....If you found a way to save the one you loved, what cost would you pay in return?"<br/>It has been four years since the events at the Crossroads. Lavellan has not ceased in her efforts to locate Solas. But without the power taken from her, that task may be harder than what it first appeared.<br/>(Your Lavellan x Solas, Slow Burn)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic I am writing with a Generic Female Mage!Lavellan for the appeasement of my own Solavellan ship as well as for others. I will try to keep the character class subdued enough that a Rogue/Warrior class Lavellan could be easily transferred into the place. I hope you appreciate generosity in writing; I know it may make for a more generic character, but I will try to keep things spicy to make for interesting reading! There are a lot of great Lavellan fics out there and I may write some involving my own character in the future, but I enjoy the challenge of writing from a different angle. My background is mostly in roleplay, so please forgive me if I'm rusty.
> 
> As a forewarning to those who have not played Trespasser: the writing in this piece follows the events of Trespasser. If you haven't played it or do not know the plot, I would advise against reading ahead at this point in time. Then, I would also advise going to play it ASAP!

 

> _‘I've always been dark_
> 
> _With light somewhere in the distance’_

Only the wind scattered the husks of summer’s leaves through the empty streets of Val Royeaux. The sky was dark grey, its usual spark of electric blue covered by a dense layer of clouds. A storm was on its way and the remaining street merchants had all disassembled their stands and moved indoors. Outside the Summer Bazaar, Val Royeaux was little more than an ornamental fishing port. While trade still frequented the city, its more fickle populace had long since moved to more fashionable climes, following the royalty to Halamshiral or retiring to private chateaus to winter. Even those too poor to afford a chateau—or whom lacked the appropriate social webbing to stay as a privileged guest—had left for extended holiday. Thus the city lacked its usual crowd of wealthy patrons, scholars and religious pilgrims. Only the docks and thoroughfare maintained their typical bustle when trade still prospered, unless the weather intervened.

An uncommon stillness lay over the garden square nearest the fountain in the bazaar, broken only by the occasional scraping of dried leaves. A cat padded along the perimeter fence, ducking under an abandon table at _Le Masque du Lion_.  With violent suddenness, a rift exploded into being, casting an otherworldly pall of green over the nearby flagstones and buildings. Electricity spat and hissed around the tear in the Veil, filling the air with the spice and tang of magic. A hooded figure stepped out of the rift and into the gloom. With a wave from an iron-clad hand, the rift sizzled into nothing. He moved forward with a purposeful stride, climbing the white staircase toward the upper market district. His armored boots rang against each step, reverberating through the gilded causeway. A bell tolled at the Chantry in the distance. He braced himself against the rising wind as he looked out over the painted city below him, but did not pause or slow in his resolve.

Lantern light warmed the windows of a merchant’s shop in the distance. Its glow served as a beacon in the dying light on the rotunda. Thunder called from across the bay, and then the sky tore open. Rain spattered on the proud red tapestries overhanging the lower bazaar, the sound like many drumming fingers. The man pulled his hood tighter. He reached the merchant’s door, hesitating briefly as he muttered a spell of unlocking beneath his breath. The heavy lock clicked and the door swung inwards without a sound.

Seated at the desk the merchant known as Deraboam scribbled on a parchment, humming a popular Orlesian tune beneath his breath, and oblivious to the intruder at his doorstep. Rain dotted the windowpane, casting strange shadows in the dying light. 

“Hello.”

Deraboam startled as lightning silhouetting the man in his doorway in contrasting black and white.

“Wh—what is the meaning of this?” He stared at the man, expecting a reply, but none was afforded. “Get out of my shop; I am no longer open for business.”

“I’m afraid that what I’ve come for is outside the realm of what is yours to sell,” he said quietly, stepping in out of the rain.

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Just leave! Now!” He drew a knife from a desk drawer, brandishing it menacingly. His fist shook around the ornate, jeweled hilt. In his hands, it looked little more threatening than a letter opener. 

The armored man stepped forward further, careful not to disrupt the piles of paper and books littering the floor.

“Your antics do not frighten me. If you give me what I seek, I will let you live. If not—“ The stranger’s eyes glowed white blue. With inhuman speed he grasped the unsuspecting merchant by the throat and pinned him against the wall. “I will be forced to participate in more base forms of hostility.”

“Either way, I will leave with what I came to take.”

The merchant’s eyes, wide with fright, darted from side to side beneath his gold mask. His feet struggled to find purchase, and instead dangled in the empty air. In a gesture of spite, he gagged and grasped at the man’s hood.

“I will do the favor for you.” The man used his free hand to pull back the cloth covering, revealing a proud, bare-head and elven ears.

“I—I know you,” Deraboam hissed. “You were with the Inquisition! You’re—an apostate!”

“So it was—for a time,” the man known as Solas said, his gaze tinged with sadness. “But no longer.” He tightened his grip around the man’s throat, pressing his victim’s spine more firmly against the wall. “The time for words regarding the past have ended. You will tell me where you keep your artifacts. And in return, you will keep your life.”

The man’s face grew progressively redder as his breath caught in his throat. His lips turned blue, forming the shapes of soundless words. Moments passed as the man struggled to break free. He locked eyes with his captor in fearful defiance.  As the consciousness faded from Deraboam’s eyes, his gaze lingered on an old crate in the corner of the room. His head drooped against Solas’ hand as his limbs went slack. He lowered the man’s still body to the floor—alive, but insentient.

“A foolish choice. Futile, nevertheless.”

Solas approached the crate in the room’s corner, nudging it with the toe of his boot. It creaked and remained fast against the tile for a moment, then slid aside. The box was empty, a ruse to hide a section of loose tile. He lifted this aside, revealing a silverite chest with an intricate locking mechanism. He placed his hand along the individual mechanisms, sensing their magical properties and mouthing the words to counter them. The magic gave way with a sigh and the lid clicked opened.

Within the box were many valuable pieces of ancient history. Gems with undulating colors and soft, alluring voices called out to be held. Golden ropes and necklaces imbued with magic that had been lost for centuries lingered in this secret prison. Daggers, rings, chalices—some Tevinter, others ancient elvhen—tempted him with their legacies.

But no matter how tempting, he had not truly come to steal from the merchant—only to reclaim what was rightfully his. Buried beneath the variable wealth of magical artifacts was the object for which he had come for. He delicately lifted a large, round object wrapped in silk from the pile, revealing what had been lost—a weathered wolf’s skull, browned with age and time. He removed one of his gauntlets, gingerly trailing his fingertips along the natural grooves on its smooth surface. The hollow sockets glowed softly, as one awaking from a deep slumber.

“Aneth ara, falon’fennas,” he said, taking a moment to stare at the skull before gently placing it back in its wrappings.

The thunder roared back in reply.


	2. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan has been making slow progress on tracking Solas' whereabouts, until she meets a familiar friend.

It had been some time since she’d dreamt of him: his back turned as he walked away, sparing her a last glance as he disappeared into the ether. But, after all this time his eyes were still so sorrowful.

_“Vhenan…my love.”_

The sound of his voice made her heart race. She’d woken in a cold sweat, gripped by longing for him—and terror at the memory of his last, very real departure. She wondered if these dreams were her own mind’s buried memories, or perhaps some machination of the Fade’s design.

Lavellan breathed in the cool morning air, scented with the decay of autumn leaves from the garden below the balcony. Her breath came out in little cold puffs as she leaned over the banister. It had been four years—certainly a long time to cling to the idea of a man she had once loved. Yet she still saw him in dreams, though with less frequency. Even so, each one left her shaken.

“It isn’t him.”

She said the words aloud, a mantra she had started a few years ago. It was a factual reminder to deal with the loss. But her heart continued to doubt—or perhaps hope. Something about the love she felt for him would never quite wink out of recognition. She has resigned herself to coping with the idea that she might never see him again. But still, her heart stubbornly cleaved to the notion. It was a reality she could not unravel with any amount of logic or rational thought.

She sighed, shaking herself out of the dalliance. The dreams embarrassed her. It had been six years since Corypheus had been destroyed; six years since Solas had disappeared. Her feelings were a weakness that she could not afford, especially if she hoped to interrupt his plan for total destruction.

It was undoubtedly a weakness they no longer shared.

She shrugged out of her night gown. The light of day scraped over the peaks of the snowcapped mountains, warming her skin as she dressed. Though there was hardly the envoy of tasks that required her attention as Inquisitor, she still liked to rise early with the dawn. It gave her balance, just as the sun and the moon shared equilibrium in the sky.

Tapping on the toe of her leather boot, she descended the stairway into the Great Hall. The pleasant tang of pine smoke met her nose. Harritt had been here. The fires had been lit in the braziers, though everything else was quiet and the blacksmith was nowhere to be found. The throne was empty and admittedly somewhat dusty. There had not been a formal judgement held there since the Inquisition had retreated from glory. She still sat there to read any letters she might receive, or to enjoy a glass of wine to console the lonelier of nights.

The nobility and others of the Inquisition’s court had gradually taken their leave over the years, though a loyal few—such as Harritt and the Head Cook—had remained. Certainly, Skyhold had all but returned to dormancy. The skies however still bustled with the flap of wings as messenger crows both delivered and carried out correspondence from the former Inquisitor and her advisors. The castle had also become somewhat of a destination for glory-bound warriors and the occasional pilgrim seeking to honor her name. Though she had attempted to disavow her affiliation with Andraste since her physical journey to the Fade, the “true believers” would not be persuaded.

One such man by the name of Bryse had entitled himself her personal vassal, and refused to leave the fortress no matter how much Josephine pleaded or Cullen threatened. He had taken up residence in a tent near the gatehouse, declining more comfortable quarters in the castle. He stated it was a personal pledge to “keep the sovereign hold of the Herald a place of unblemished piety.” When Leliana had heard this, she’d simply laughed, and said, “If only he knew some of the things that have happened within these walls. Maybe then he would not be singing such flowery words about our dear Inquisitor and those she calls as friends.” With that sentiment, Lavellan had wholeheartedly agreed.

Her thoughts returned to the present as she entered the kitchens, discovering a plate of hot scones and a carafe of mint and elfroot tea waiting. The cook, no longer feeding the hungry mouths of an entire army, spent much of her time tending to her garden and cats, the latter of which she had rescued a great many. She never neglected to feed the Inquisitor, however—who often was too engrossed in her studies to remember to feed herself. Lavellan often found such plates left behind, thoughtfully prepared before the cook swapped her apron for a trowel and spade.

Most of her own days were spent in the library researching the Fade, the Elvhen, and the gods; though she occasionally spoke with Dorian via message crystal or ventured out into the wilds to keep her skills sharpened to an edge. She also frequented the rookery for messages from members of her Inner Circle—all of which whom were involved in varying degrees with tracking the movements of the Dalish clans, monitoring events connected to Solas and his whereabouts, correspondence with the Imperium, among other articles of note.

Progress was slow-going and information had been scarce, often no more than the whisper of a rumor spoken from lips loosened by ale, or a scrap of half-burnt parchment buried in the ashes of a long dead campfire. The elves themselves, those that had not yet disappeared, knew little or were unwilling to share what they did know with a _‘shem-lover’_ , as she had come to be labeled among the clans. Even Deshanna, a close friend and the Keeper of her clan, could not be reached; and when she’d journey out to find her Family, the only evidence she’d found were Aravel tracks overgrown by weeds. It seemed as though her own people had vanished from the Free Marches entirely, as if they too had become a name lost on the tongue of the wind.

It had been both discouraging and frustrating how little she yet knew of Solas’ plans. While his power and influence grew, by contrast the Inquisition’s ebbed as each month drew to a close. Though it would never be restored to its former glory by any stretch, its presence was still felt by the varied peoples of Thedas. More surprisingly, the organization had formed new alliances in both Tevinter and among the Qunari, however tenuously delicate both connections tended to be.

Lavellan found herself wandering the outer perimeter of the castle, her feet moving forward of their own accord. She bit into her last scone, brushing a few stray crumbs from her lips. The sunlight was strong, but so was the brisk chill of the wind. She leapt from rock to rock, balancing on each one as she slowly moved down the slope. There was a little cave below that she’d discovered in her first days at Skyhold. It had been a haven to her—a place to which she could slip away when the obligations of the Inquisitor became too heavy a burden.

She stepped into the darkness, finding a small, dusty box of incense she’d stashed there some years back, when her prayers had still been to the Elven gods. She lit one of the long sticks and placed it upright to burn in a small dish of sand and ash. A thin tendril of fragrant smoke appeared around the glowing ember, spiraling around the alter and various stone deities in which she’d once placed her faith.

She sat down with her back against a stone wall and stared out over the valley. It felt wrong to kneel here in prayer to beings she knew had once been flesh, bone, and spirit. But there were moments such as this one where the emptiness of knowing the truth was less of a comfort. Prayer had been one escape she did not always mind. It meant there were things larger than her to bear the weight of the world. But once that was gone, she and all she represented within the Inquisition, became the fulcrum.

In truth, the reality was a burden. She had not accepted the Maker and Andraste in the place of her former pantheon, though she believed that something greater must have created magic and the world for them to coexist. She had witnessed Solas’ power personally, as well as the power of the Anchor and Foci. Her fingers traced the rounded end of her left arm, still grimly fascinated by the way it awkwardly stopped above the elbow. _Someone powerful enough to tear down the Veil_ —it was no wonder her people had chosen to believe as they did about the Evanuris. But could they truly be Gods?

“It is heavy, too much…crushing me. My shoulders were always small…I’m going to break under the yoke of this burden. Why was I chosen? And in the end he ran away. Hot electric pain, raw power but the storm is inside me. I was bleeding, my flesh lost in the green gale…he walked into the Fade to end the world and pain blossomed, chaos.”

She inhaled sharply, turning toward the shadow beside the alter.

“Cole? Is that you?”

The spirit of compassion turned young man stepped into the light, crossing his arms. His hat drooped low over his face, but she could just make out the gleam of his eyes.

“What in all of Thedas are you doing here?”

He cocked his head sideways, appearing confused by the question. “You needed me.”

“Most people usually knock.”

“There wasn’t a door,” he said.

She stood up and dusted herself off, still surprised by the suddenness of Cole’s appearance. Though he had often appeared in inopportune ways since their first meeting, she believed she would never quite get used to it.

“I heard you from across the Fade while you slept. You’ve been having the dreams again. Dreams involving—“

“Stop.” Lavellan placed up her hand before he could speak the man’s name. Hearing it spoken aloud from a spirit of compassion was somehow too much. “Yes. It’s been some time since the last. But they have started again, only recently. ”

“It means something. He is trying to communicate with you. He has not forgotten. And he is aware of your efforts. You are very close to finding him.”

Lavellan bit her lip. She felt conflicted. “Close to finding him….what do you mean? We haven’t had a solid lead in months. He’s always been just out of reach. Even Leliana hasn’t been able to pin down anything useful from any of the elvish clans. I hardly see that as progress, Cole.”

She stepped toward him, crossing her arm across her chest. “And where have you been? I have been trying to contact you. You aren’t the easiest person to find, or track for that matter.”

“I have been helping those who hurt. Here, the girl who longs for the baby she lost and faces the blame of her mother; there—the man who thinks about ending his life because he is meaningless, a nothing, a nobody. I tend to those forgotten, healing all hurts, great and small. I can help.”

“You are doing what you are intended to do, Cole, and for that I am glad. But my own connection to the Fade is not as great. I am no spirit. I can’t travel there as freely as you can.” She tilted her chin. “I was hoping you could give me information on Solas’ intentions.”

“He intends to tear down the Veil,” he said plainly.

She sighed. The spirit thought much as a child, with black and white sincerity. Though his intentions were pure, he was still prone to frustrating crypticity. “Yes—but what about the Elves? Where have they gone? What do they have to do with Solas’ plan?”

“I don’t know. He somehow blocks me—barricades me. He is the wind, bending the leaf and branch, unseen but felt. Each one of them is a sapling, together a forest. He moves among them and within them. Hidden.”

A heavy silence rested over them as she attempted to digest his words. It sounded like Solas was building his own army.

“Is he using them? Is Solas taking elves to be his soldiers?”

“No; he doesn’t need them to fight his war. He thinks he is helping; saving them. You showed him the path, you changed his mind. But the forest will burn…it’s…burning. Flames fed by the gale, drinking the dry wood. A wildfire that will grow until the whole world is lost in it. So much pain…then, darkness. Suffering, death.”

Cole grimaced, clenching his eyes shut. Lavellan reached out and touched his hands, tipping her face beneath the brim of his hat so that she could see his face.

“Cole, we will stop him before he can destroy the world. We accomplished so much together to allow him to bring Thedas back into chaos and imbalance. You and I both understand what he is capable of doing. We won’t let him undo the work all of us have sacrificed so much to achieve,” she said determinedly. _“I won’t let him.”_

The passion in her voice stirred the spirit into the present. He blinked, returning her gaze.

“You trade the suffering of the world….and in the end, you will suffer instead.”

She flinched, feeling his words like a slap to the face. It was a truth she had convinced herself she was willing to accept, but hearing it aloud took her by surprise.

“I know Cole. And I will accept whatever I have to if it means stopping Solas.”

Her left arm began to throb, as it did when she felt emotionally charged. The throbbing turned into tingling, leaving her entire left side feeling as though it was on fire. Phantom pain was something that had become very common to her; it was exhausting and often left her in a state of fatigue afterward. The handicap was something she had worked very hard to overcome, but it still assailed her almost daily.

Cole reached out and lightly brushed the end of her arm with his fingertips. The pain eased slightly and she let out a little sigh of relief. “You’re hurting—I can help you to forget for a while.”

Her eyes became hard as she looked away. “Thank you. But there are some things that should not be forgotten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I apologize for the lag in update time. I found this chapter to be especially challenging, as I had one lined up and ended up deciding it would fit better later on in the story. I hope you enjoy this for now! It is really difficult to write an open-ended Inquisitor without going _too_ much into plot decisions players can make along the way. I may have to nail some choices down--however, small ones such as whether or not Cole remained more spirit or human I will leave up to the reader.  
>  Cheers and I hope to come back with a new chapter soon!
> 
> Song for this Chapter: [_First Aid Kit_ \- Wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoVux_CSbLQ)


	3. Wave

Cullen poked his fingers into the soft earth at the roadside, drawing long, deliberate lines along the leaf-litter.

“The camp is here,” he said, gesturing to a large smooth stone. “And this is where we hold our current position. If we approach from all four sides, they will have no option to flee.”

“But if they’re cornered, won’t they be more likely to act out a last stand, sir?”

The Commander sighed. “It’s the only lead we have and we can’t afford another retreat, Lieutenant. You know as well as I do that the elves are not exactly at paramount numbers. They’ve been disappearing all over Thedas. We can’t keep chasing lesser players in the game. We need to capture their leaders and question them.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Lieutenant Harding, formerly a scout for the Inquisition’s Spymaster, placed a gauntleted hand on her hip. The wind stirred her strawberry hair, freeing a few strands. “Maker knows that we don’t have a lot of options. But I’d rather avoid more bloodshed if it’s possible. If we divide our forces, we can attack with the main body while infiltrating their defensive perimeter here.”

She leaned over their impromptu map, stabbing her finger into the sand to the right of the stone.

“It’s weak enough that a few might slip by, minimizing casualties and increasing our odds of successfully capturing one of their higher ranking officiants. Think of it like cutting the head of the snake. If we can take away their leadership, they’ll be totally directionless before long.”

“Yes, that might work.” Cullen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I would be more comfortable with our odds if we didn’t have such a history of failures. Leliana was much better at infiltration and interrogation. I would gladly defer to her better judgement given the circumstances, but we have very few options at our disposal. If we don’t act tonight, we may lose our chances entirely.”

Plans for the ambush had taken months of collaboration between the less substantial resources of the Inquisition’s former spymaster and remaining scouts. After many tiring weeks of tracking the scattered clans throughout the maze of forests in the Vimmark Mountains, they had arrived at what appeared to be the ruins of a half-buried elven temple. The elves had been particularly keen on disguising their tracks and, given their substantial familiarity of the landscape, the Commander and his troops had lost the trail several times. Given the wildlife and several near misses with the local Giant population, the pursuit had left them battered, discouraged, and haggard. Whether it was happenstance or the Divine Will of the Maker, they had finally arrived at the elves’ apparent destination—it certainly failed to disappoint.

The temple structure itself was enormous, though it appeared to have been wholly consumed by swampy ground and large stones. Spires of limestone reached toward the sky in typical elven fashion, garnished in whorls of green agate and weather-tarnished silver. Even its balconies had crumbled and sagged, burdened by the weight of time and age. The surrounding flora had taken up occupancy amidst the cracked pillars and archways, content to slowly reclaim its former dynasty by degrees.

But whatever cataclysm had buried the structure had lost definability. The building itself had been nearly swallowed by the earth, as if the ground had momentarily lost its definition. The pit was frozen in the shape of a cylindrical spiral. It was filled with murky ground water overgrown with pond lilies, and carpeted in algae. Though the power that had sunken the temple had since vanished, its fingerprint remained—the air felt statically charged, raising the fine hairs on the back of one’s neck. And beyond the sweet smell of forest lilacs was the faint scent of ozone. Great magic had once been performed here, leaving its mark permanently upon the Veil.

Beyond the mysterious circumstances of the temple was the even more baffling industry of the elves. Hundreds of them—men, women, and even children—toiled on excavating the building. The people worked seemingly of their own free volition, unified in their effort regardless of clan or status. Some of the young broke away from their halfhearted laboring to play a game of chase, while their mothers with infants strapped to their backs gossiped with one another. The colorful sails of the aravels added charm to the scene, their canvases pulling at the wind as nearby halla grazed the lush landscape. It almost appeared normal, maybe even picturesque—perhaps the gathering of many clans in an attempt to restore the history lost to them. Normal—save for the presence of heavily armed guard patrolling the immediate grounds of the temple and its perimeter.

Cullen rose to his feet, dusting the grime of the road from his pants as he mulled over the last report given to him on the temple and surrounding elven encampments. He had yet to see it for himself in person, but the descriptions were grim. So many women and children could result in unnecessary casualties. Images of the Circle Tower assailed him suddenly, and he dismissed the memory with shame.

He had not witnessed the elves organize as such in his lifetime, nor had he imagined them so capably armed. Though, the Warden had had recognized the potential of the Dalish when the Blight had threatened to engulf the world. He chastised himself privately for his oversight. The elves had been formidable then. Over the last half and one decade, they had only served to further substantiate their power. While Orlais and Fereldan had been preoccupied with the Breach, the elves had quietly amassed a stockpile of weapons, armor, and supplies. Many thought they lacked formal organization. It seems they had been mistaken.

Lieutenant Harding noticed his grimness. “I think the odds are more in our favor than you think, Commander. We still have the element of surprise. If they know we’re here, they don’t know how many of us are traveling from the east.”

Cullen nodded his assent.

“That is true, but we have been caught unprepared before. Hopefully our men will be able to break through the treeline before nightfall.”

“From what I am to understand," he continued, "they have been largely unchallenged thus far. And while I am hardly a pessimist—” Harding shot him a nearly imperceptible glance, “—I am wary of how little they have encountered on the road. These elves are better prepared than what credit we give them. They mobilized right under our noses at the time of Solas’ treachery, and it’s taken us this long to catch up. We need to prepare for the potentiality that they know we are coming for them, however unaware they present themselves.”

“Even if the elves know we’re coming, our own men and women have weathered the last few seasons of battle. They are trustworthy and trained, to say the least. This is not the ragtag band of novice recruits that we saw back in Haven. I’m confident in their ability, sir. We might be outnumbered, but these are veterans on the field. And none of them will take pride in taking the life of an elf, given that the leader of our cause is Dalish herself. This is not a battle many of them will enjoy,” Harding said.

“You’re right. I was quick to doubt,” Cullen replied, watching as the remaining forward scouts sharpened their blades and counted their arrows. “I will accompany the main company forward. Keep the elves of our scent if you can.”

The Lieutenant smiled and threw a mock salute. “We’ll keep the hearth warm for you, sir.”

As Cullen mounted his charger and galloped down the wending forest path, one phrase turned in his mind.

_“The Inquisitor should be here.”_

 

* * *

 

Solas walked through the abandon halls of the ruin, the warmth between his clasped hands the only heat in the underground labyrinth. His footfalls snapped against the flagstones, echoing like shouting voices through the empty vaults and crumbling corridors. Spirits of the past cleaved to the wellspring of his thoughts and took form, whispering from across the veil. He focused his mind elsewhere, trying to shut out the images of light and color that once lingered here on those familiar faces like blooming flowers in the gardens of his memory.

A nug squealed and blindly darted out of his path, disappearing into the filth of its burrow. He fixed his gaze ahead, undeterred. Though the power had faded here with age, he felt it move beneath the very earth like the flow of a mighty river. He was but flotsam upon its surface, carried headlong by the current toward a singular moment of violence. Even now, he was unsure if it would precipitate his end.

He turned past the remains of a decrepit antechamber, noting the staleness of the air. The ebb of the Fade strengthened further. He exhaled as it drew him in like a tethered fish on a line. It made him lightheaded. He closed his eyes.  

Here had once been his friends and servants, lords and ladies of the Elvhen struck from the ledgers of history in the same moment he had turned against his kin, false prophets and “gods” to the people. The bones of the innocent, nearly dust now from age, still littered the halls where their owners had fallen in death. These lives had been destroyed by the very people he’d hoped to save. On that day they’d taken up arms and destroyed their brethren in retribution for his actions. And the countless futures lost in ignorance were yet another sin and burden he carried. He had not been present to help them.  Here, in the forgotten temple of Fen’Harel.

The green light of a wisp flickered into being, attracted by his life force.

“Enas val dan'lathal? Banal’amahn, Fen’Harel. Val’lasa?”

“Ar banal'vara, ras’abalas,” he said, banishing it beyond the Veil.

_“Do you remember what has happened here?”_

The outline of the wisp faded into nothing, but the cold weight in his chest remained. Guilt was his familiar, as it had been for centuries. He endured the feeling, just as always, and continued forward.

Solas reminded himself of how the world would change again by his hand. He would undo his mistake, and restore what was lost. Though he could never pay the debt he owed to the people of his time, he would scribe a new path in time for their descendants. It had never been his intention to rob the world so utterly of magic. It had been a colorless mirror of the Thedas he’d known, bled dry of its lifeblood. He had almost regarded it as lost, until _she_ had turned his hand from ruin.

 _“Vhenan…”_ The word encircled his mind in an unbroken chain of grief. He gripped his chest in an attempt to stanch the ache of a wound that would never truly close. This: yet another betrayal for which he could not forgive himself. Solas forced the feeling back into the cage of his regrets and returned to cool composure. He took a breath and cleared the emotion from his face, perfectly impassive.

Worn gold paint from a broken mosaic littered the floor. He remembered the ancient image; it bore his semblance. It had depicted him laughing as he danced beyond the reach of Dirthamen, a scroll of secrets from his elven brother’s vault clasped in his hand and just out of the pursuer's reach. It was based on a gem of truth, as he had not earned his namesake as a trickster without cause. But however bold he had been in his youth, time had made him more cautious—and tired.

Beyond the litter of tile and stone lay his destination, an unassuming room at the temple’s heart. He grappled with tree roots that had pierced the remains of the structure, drawn by the closeness of the Fade like water. He lit a Veilfire in his palm, cupping the turquoise flame in his hand. The room was strewn with broken pottery and bones of the dead. The alter at its center had been reduced to rubble, sagging tiredly like a drunken man against the floor. Spider’s silk covered the room in soft floating garland as the air around it was disturbed. All around, flowing elven script decorated every surface of the walls and floor, untouched by the ruining marks of the temple’s desecrators. He took three steps forward, dipping his finger into the soft tendrils of flame in his hand and tracing the outline of two runes in blue fire. The old magic wards glimmered to life and sighed, fading into the wall once again. The stone groaned and settled into a recess in the floor, sliding back just enough to reveal a hidden door on the other side. Solas slipped through like a shadow.

His magic wards had been effective in their purpose, as the room beyond was as he had left it. Green glass pillars of Fade stone towered up into a black vault of the domed ceiling. Strewn on every free surface were his instruments, things of magic and power lost in time. Glass vials and metal rods dominated his workspace, only outnumbered by scrolls and tomes of texts he had written or gathered over the millennia. A curator might pay everything he owned but to touch one of the artifacts he had collected if not but to understand its secrets. Everywhere, the Fade felt close at hand. The room itself was a conduit for its raw energy beyond the thinning Veil.

Solas lay the flame to rest in an urn on a small wooden table, and reached into his cloak. His hand pressed against the broken fragments of what was known as the Anchor. They rocked gently as he set them aside, taking a pinch of fragrant tobacco from a nearby box. He inhaled deeply. Though it had lost some of its vigor over the years, the leaves still smelled of rich wooded pines, earth, and the heat of summer air.

He had not smoked in some time, but remembered the dance well enough. His fingers moved nimbly along the pipe as he lit the contents of small the chamber. He inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to cough. _“A younger man’s sport,”_ he decided, resting the reedy pipe on the desk beside the Anchor. Nevertheless, the moment had offered him some amount of repose.

Though the room was filled with small treasures from his past, it contained no use for his present needs. These were merely toys—objects of fancy meant to entertain a once-god who had longed for simplicity. But at its very nature, the room served a purpose. It was a crucible for all magic, a way to repair what was temporarily broken. It was truly ironic that while he had once foraged the Anchor through mortal sweat and toil, it now required all of his power and ability to repair. He was not nearly as strong as he once had been….not yet.

Taking a deep breath, he removed his cloak and dropped it unceremoniously into the dust at his feet. The light of the Veilfire flickered as he drew the power of the Fade into his body: a conduit.

“It begins again,” he breathed. Then the light went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes; this was a long chapter absence.  
> I really struggled in writing this and finding inspiration, though I am happy (for now) with the result. I feel that the story is carrying me along from plot-point to plot-point. But some chapters are more difficult to connect than others.  
> Also, I know it's cheesy and cliche to make chapters out of songs. But I really like playlists. What can I say? Child of the 90s. 
> 
> I'm enjoying fleshing out characters, especially assuming there's been a few years of personal discovery and growth between the last DLC and where the story takes off. It leaves a lot of room for creativity!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Song for this Chapter: _Beck_ \- [Wave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATuowRUVHBM)  
> 


	4. It's Only

 

 

> _Vivienne;_
> 
> _I trust this letter finds you well. Your work assuredly keeps you busy: between the Chantry, mages, and the royal court, I am sure you have no shortage of admirers._
> 
> _Our conversations have been less familiar than I’d like, and I was hoping to seek your advice on a matter of particular interest. But in honesty, I always enjoy finding reasons to seek your counsel._
> 
> _Also, if you must know, my wardrobe has suffered some amount of stagnancy since several months after our last meeting. Alas, you know me well enough—I am sure you knew this already and I am being overly redundant._
> 
> _Thank you for your next shipment in advance._
> 
> _Always ‘your dear’,_
> 
> _‘L’_

Lavellan attached the message deftly to the crow’s long, calloused leg. It nibbled softly on her hand, rubbing its beak in an impatient fashion along her forefinger. She gave the bird a small reward—a bit of boiled hare from a pouch at her waist. The crow snatched the morsel away and gurgled appreciatively, then fixed its intelligent, black eyes upon her as it awaited its instructions.

The birds, though clever, were largely trained to recognize names, faces, colors, and shapes. Thus house banners and flags were tightly policed, and were as valuable as currency should one’s enemy find a way to copy one and intercept unsuspecting ravens or crows en route to their intended recipients. But wealthy parties such as Madame de Fer could afford birds of superior intellect, raised to selectively recognize the particular weave, texture, pattern, and cloth of her house sigil. 

Lavellan preferred to add her own level of safety, attaching the note with magically-sealed parchment. She was careful to keep the wards on the end of moderate difficulty should the truly inspired wish to read her correspondence, while fending off the curiosity of those enticed by the secrets that may be hidden within intricately spelled documents. Then again, she also erred on the side of ambiguity in her writing should her letters be read before their intended recipients. If all her years as Inquisitor had taught her a single thing, it was not to lend one’s trust with overt ease.

“Madame Vivienne de Fer,” she told the bird, indicating the proper direction and offering it a scrap of blue silk cloth cut form her friend’s trademark banner. It croaked in reply, recognizing the recipient well.

Many of these birds were trained to deliver messages between specific members of her former party, such as Vivienne, Cassandra, and Varric; though Sera was not as reliable. This was due first of which to her wandering, and second of which because she made official sport of intercepting the winged messengers with her own ‘messengers’—these with a decidedly more fatal bite. It was often safer to send these messages by courier, though it took much longer and was often met with failure; or a consummate loss of breeches.

If she wished to reach either the Bull or Dorian, she did so via spelled crystal. Blackwall and Cole were much more enigmatic and difficult to reach, though the former was at least confined to the boundaries of the material world. It had been several years since she’d seen Blackwall—or Thom Rainer as he was better known—though he wrote her with surprising frequency as he rambled through Thedas. It had taken some time to mend the rift that his betrayal had created, though his persistence had bridged the distance with some efficacy. Certainly, he had become less of a fatalist, inspired to some order of hope after Corypheus had fallen.

Lavellan thrust her arm out over the banister, and the crow sailed into the air, rising above the highest tower of Skyhold before disappearing into the cleft of mountains beyond. She brushed a bit of feathery down from her coat sleeve, then descended into the relative shadows of the castle.

A letter penned by Commander Cullen had been delivered late the night before, detailing the movement of troops, the position of the elven guard, and other fine points of field work before the strike. The Commander had thinly veiled his air of disappointment with her decision to stay behind. But she did not feel guilty for her absence, nor did she mark herself a coward. If she’d accompanied the troops in the raid, she would be the flame to fuel the rage of the elven people against all shemlen. Even so, her decision to strike the elves was a gamble at best. It felt no less of a betrayal than if she’d lifted the sword against her people in her own hand. Her presence at the frontlines could well stem a civil war.

Nevertheless, she had another task to assume. Finding Solas could unravel the linen of chaos in an instant. Thus far, her own past relationship with the ancient elf made her the most likely candidate to find him. It appeared an utterly hopeless venture. His inopportune appearances within her dreams were the only leads they had, such as they were.

“Inquisitor.”

She turned to the familiar voice, smiling through half-lidded eyes as the sun caught her face.

“Seanna, I thought we might go riding today. I’m glad you caught me when you did.”

The young woman mirrored her expression, crossing her arms across her leather jerkin.

“You’ve been avoiding me. I fear books and damp castle basements have won out over fresh air and blue skies.”

“You’re not wrong,” Lavellan admitted. “But it isn’t for a lack of enjoyment.”

The woman smiled, edging past the elf toward the stables. “Come on, then. I’ve started saddling Freya. You gather the supplies.”

Seanna was Quartermaster Dennet’s daughter, and she had assumed his role about a year after the fall of Corypheus. Her father, a practical man well-accustomed to life on the farm, had always been divided due to his circumstances and an inborn sense of duty. When he felt the Inquisition no longer needed him, his gaze lingered upon his home. More often than she cared to admit, she’d seen him on the ramparts at sunset, staring toward the Southeastern peaks as the sun bled its last drop of light over the valley.

Dennet was too proud to resign. She had practically forced him out of his role after the sale of most of Skyhold’s diverse mounts. Even so, she could see the peace in his eyes at the thought of leaving. He left instructions in scrupulous detail, down to what horse preferred which type of grain.

It served as no small surprise when after two span time, Dennet’s only daughter had arrived on Skyhold’s doorstep offering her own service as a replacement. The girl was determined and headstrong, lacking her father’s mild manner. She was loud and enjoyed gambling over pints in the tavern, never sore to lose but nonetheless unable to settle for loss.

Lavellan remembered the silence of the days when all her companions had gone. Nothing but the harsh laugh of the ravens had echoed between the stones then. In the hush of her grief and tears, she felt only loss at the space her lover had once occupied. It was a time where in her selfishness she had forgotten how to feel beyond herself and was thus lost to joy.

Seanna had been the heat of the sun that lifted the fog of despair. She had not settled for less of an Inquisitor than what the stories had grown—and oft not embellished. She had seen Lavellan through the shadows of herself and in turn became an unexpected friend and companion.

Lavellan stuffed a few ripe apples into a pack, as well as a hard loaf of rye bread, a wheel of cheese, and a few dried mushrooms. Seanna always had a supply of jerky in her pack, made from wild game she’d harvested from their outings. They often found berries growing in thick brambles along the trail. Lavellan always knew which to avoid and where the ripest fruits would grow. This talent had not escaped the notice of the cook, who always employed the duo with pastries to bring back a bushel of whatever they found.

“Stop dallying and come help me with the tack,” Seanna chided, throwing a loop of reins over her Fereldan Forder.

Lavellan held back the retort ready on her lips and swung the pack over her shoulder. “Where would you like to ride today? I was thinking we could make for the waterfall. If we ride steadily, we can be back in time for dinner.”

Seanna laughed. “I would be hard pressed to miss tonight’s meal. I bought out the cook with a few choice cuts from the stag I felled a week ago. Tonight she’s baking some into those meat and plum pies I love.”

“I’ve never met a woman more focused on her stomach,” Lavellan said, hoisting the saddle over the Forder’s back. 

“You obviously haven’t met many Fereldan women then,” Seanna grinned. “I’ll let you get your mount. He’s warmed up to me but he’s still a nip skittish.”

The mount was Lavellan’s Red Hart. Out of all the animals she’d requisitioned, gifted, or had bought, she had found the animal loyal to a fault. When it had come to the considerable sale of the animals she’d acquired throughout the years of the Inquisition, the beast was unwilling to adopt any other rider. She’d attempted to let the Hart free, but it had simply returned the following day, content in chewing upon the Cook’s blackberry canes. The Red Hart had been allowed to freely graze the lawns of the courtyard ever since, while a choice few of Lavellen’s other mounts were housed on Dennet’s farm in Redcliff.

She placed a familiar hand on the warm hide of the Hart. He raised his head from grazing, snuffling her fingers for treats. She placed a braided halter on the animal and led him over to Seanna and her Forder. The pair of women watched as Bryse crossed the courtyard, head bowed low in penance, to retrieve a pail of water from the well. He snuck a furtive glance in their direction as he hurried away, whispering platitudes to Andraste and the Holy Mother.

“I’m surprised his faith has held for so long.” Seanna raised an eyebrow. “Or, perhaps he has a taste for the _forbidden fruit_. I bet he’d lose his piousness for a night if you were there to warm his—“

“Seanna,” Lavellan cut her short, giving her a scathing grin. “He has a kind heart and is well-intentioned. Besides—we don’t even know if he’s made it as far to truly ‘know’ a woman as you suggest.”

“Still,” Seanna continued. “A romp in a stranger’s bed might do you some good. You look grey around the eyes these days.”

Lavellan felt her stomach rise into her throat before rapidly dropping into her middle. She had not thought about another man in that way for….she couldn’t remember how long it had been. The thought almost made her sick, but what both disturbed and delighted her was that she _wanted_ to know that closeness again. Seanna was right. But, with the return of the dreams came a new hunger, one she knew no other person could satiate. It had to be _him_.

 _“Solas.”_ Her heart shouted his name so loudly, the feeling of it made her head throb. Her mouth went dry and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. The reins felt heavy in her hand. She felt almost weak with the longing. It made her angry to feel so powerless still against the man who had abandoned her. But at the center of the anger was the spark of excitement.

“You’re thinking about him again.”

Lavellan flushed pink and looked away, ashamed to be caught.

“It’s nothing,” she said too quickly. “Let’s get moving.”

* * *

The pair moved out the gates and down into the valley in silence as the breeze fanned out the dust of the road behind them. Their mounts quickly took on the well-practiced stride of trained beasts of burden, nimbly dodging pitfalls and loose stones that might easily trap a less wary creature. Lavellan rode in silence for some time, enjoying her freedom of Skyhold, if only for a few hours. She realized that the castle had become a sort of prison for her, entombing her in the past while companions from her life had moved onto other chapters. Despite this, she felt that her own chapter at Skyhold had not come to an end. Sometimes this disheartened her, but on most days she took comfort in the notion that her own purpose continued.

Gradually the landscape dissolved from cold tundra into warm Kingsway, the breath of summer still clinging to the fading green of the leaves. Seanna and Lavellan spent the afternoon in sunlight, talking and laughing beneath the boughs of the many trees as their burdens faded for a time.

They returned to Skyhold with an august ram and a bushel of berries in tow as the sun’s last rays disappeared beyond the mountaintops. The deep shadows made Lavellan shiver, missing the earlier warmth of the valley. After the mounts had been respectively groomed and tended to, she went to wash up while Seanna delivered their harvest to the eager cook.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Lavellan called after Seanna. The girl waved over her shoulder, adjusting the woven game bag slung across her back. Seanna liked to bring in their catch without help, as it meant she could skim the top of their mutual reward—usually tarts, pies, or cookies—before sharing. Lavellan knew, but didn’t mind. The cook snuck her extras off the books when Seanna wasn’t near.

“Don’t soak too long or you’ll miss out,” Seanna shouted. After a pause, she added, “I’ll save you a pie or two, and a mug of warm cider.”

With that, she disappeared around the rotunda.

Lavellan entered her room and kicked her boots into a pile by the staircase. She tossed a few logs into the fire though, regardless of whether she fueled it, the hearth was always lit. There were vestiges of magic present within the very stones of Skyhold. She wondered what history the building had, and who had lived there prior. Despite perusing the old tomes in the castle’s dusty library, she had come up with little actual knowledge of the place. The mystery used to disturb her, but now she found it comforting; much as an old familiar specter, haunting the empty corridors.

As she removed her hunting belt and slipped out of her breeches, a neatly wrapped package caught her eye. It was wrapped in brown paper, carefully placed at the foot of her bed. Normally, any mail arriving on horseback was piled at the foot of the staircase by whoever received it—usually Seanna or Bryse, as they were most often in the courtyard. And as she had been out all afternoon with Seanna (Bryse was much too afraid to venture beyond her stairwell on the best of days), it must have been placed there by someone else altogether. More disturbingly, the door to her room was heavily warded and locked when she wasn’t present. She kept the only key on a string in her pocket.

Lavellan touched the smooth brown paper, picking the box up with her hands. It was light. She shook it gently and heard the innocuous rustle of paper within. While unwrapping it, she looked for a telling mark or name to suggest a sender, but found none.

Atop an item wrapped in tissue was a simple note written in a tight, shaky hand:

 

 

> _Inquisitor;_
> 
> _I send this with my regards. I hope it is safer with you._
> 
> _M._
> 
> _P.S. You’re very close to an answer; just take the time to look._

Her hand slipped into the box, tearing away veils of thin paper around the object within. She stopped, opening her mouth in stunned recognition. Inside was the cracked globe of an elven artifact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have succeeded in cutting down my work hours (under 60 a week) and slaying a little bit of the writer's block I've been having. So, I appreciate it if you've stuck with it thusfar! I plan on finishing this b**** though. I will not leave another fanfic incomplete; and I've got some ideas. 
> 
> Off to bed and brainstorm! 
> 
> Song for this Chapter: _Odesza_ \- [It's Only](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPqTCrm61-I)


	5. Fallen Empires

The morning had yet to bloom over the elven encampment. A hint of frost bristled on each blade of grass, making the living shapes appear almost statuesque. Cullen crouched at the edge of the clearing, his breath forming a small shroud around his face. A soldier passed by on his left and their eyes met with firm resolve as the man continued forward. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, waiting for the rest of his men to fall into position. Though he couldn’t see the soldiers stationed across the blue light of the clearing, he knew that by now they would be hidden.

They had been preparing over the last several hours, inching forward in the darkness—night animals— avoiding every twig and leaf, least one betray them to the elven sentinels. Days of preparation had led them to this moment. Cullen hoped for answers, and had allowed the years since Solas’ betrayal fester in his heart.

A bird broke through the mist, disappearing over the trees and out of sight. A few of the elven watchmen took note before returning to their cooking fire. Lieutenant Harding silently appeared beside Cullen, startling him. It was a rarity to surprise him, but Harding never ceased to impress him with her light hand and steps. She notched an arrow between her fingers then turned to him for direction. He nodded in confirmation. The air between them seemed to slow its turning, frozen and lifeless, a picture locked in a moment. She notched the arrow, lifting it in a fluid motion as she drew back to her shoulder. Hesitating the space just between breaths, she paused, then let the arrow fly.  It cut through the mist in a clean arch over the encampment. All time ceased as the arrow made its clear and perfect path across the sky: then, chaos.

Soldiers exploded out of the tree line from all directions. Cullen headed for the closest sentry, raising his voice to join hundreds of others. With the metal in his own hand, he met steel with a female elf armed with two thin sabers. The strike reverberated through his arms, surprising him at the woman’s strength. She smiled grimly, twisting out of his reach before his next strike—but he was prepared for such a movement, using the width of his body to back her into a nearby aravel. Around them, the shouts of battle crowded the field. Pain, surprise, anger, death. Each voice marked its own place in the story of victory or defeat.

“I don’t wish to harm you,” Cullen said, his eyes hard. “If you forfeit, none will come to you. But should you resist—“

The elf replied with a fireball. He rolled out of the way as the magic singed the edge of his cape. Several of the fighters on both sides screamed as the flames engulfed them, the smell of burning tissue and hair causing Cullen’s stomach to tighten. Fragments of desiccated flesh littered the ground around them. Cullen twisted his grip around the blade, channeling his rage he felt at the needless loss of life. While his opponent was rebuffing, he twisted his pommel into the side of her head. She crumpled beneath the blow, blood blossoming from the new dent in her skull. She was alive, but it would take months of careful healing and therapy to regain the ability to feed herself with a spoon.

“They have mages!” he screamed, scanning the field for his next target.

“I can see that,” Harding yelled in reply, notching another arrow.

At the edge of the field, a man in a thick robe conjured spells of protection from a floating tome. Cullen sprinted toward the man, dodging obstacles on the battlefield with veteran practice. The mage noted his approach, warding himself with a barrage of ice mines. Nearly tripping over the first rune of the closest trap, Cullen used his sword to bat the tome away. The mage yelled in dismay, summoning a defensive lighting strike. The bolt hit Cullen square in the chest, momentarily incapacitating him. He felt the air in his lungs crackle and struggled to catch his breath as electricity sizzled through his marrow.  However, this was not the first time he’d encountered lightning magic. Years of encounters, particularly in Kirkwall, in unison with Templar training had made him resilient.

Gasping, he released energy as a spell purge, then Wrath of Heaven, rendering the mage—and all nearby magic—useless. The mage fell out of the way in a stunned panic, immediately replaced by a charging reaver. The man bellowed, swiping his blade inches from Cullen’s neck. He staggered backward, caught off guard, raising his shield just as a mighty blow struck him to the ground. His hand and arm tingled from the strength of the impact. He was breathing hard; sweat filmed his face, stinging his eyes.

Another strike embedded in the dirt beside him. Before the next swing, Cullen dodged with a quick combat roll. His opponent was fast considering the weapon he wielded. Knowing his words would be useless, he resolved himself to the inevitable battle ahead. The man aimed a kick at his chest, but Cullen raised his shield. His heel twisted and he lost his balance. Cullen rammed his shield into the reaver’s kneecap, using the momentum to parry with his sword. The man took the blow to the gut, snarling in pain and surprise. This only caused his rage to intensify, blood spilling out from beneath his armor.

Cullen cursed, feeling suddenly vulnerable. He should have ignored the easy opening, which left him well within the reach of his opponent’s greatsword. Before he could take a step away, the sword came down in three successive strikes against his shield. It felt like attempting to hold back the tide, or perhaps an angry druffalo. He grimaced, his shield arm aching against the onslaught.

The sudden white hot surge of an electric charge rent him to the ground. _The mage!_ Already weakened, he dropped to his knees. His vision blurred as his body was rent by the power of the lightning strike. He found himself oddly fixed on the reaver’s shoes; the wear of the leather, the detail. He smelled the earth and the sod, the electric ozone of magic all around him. _“It’s over,”_ he thought, unable to focus his thoughts beyond the word—a mantra of defeat—in his mind.

An arrow sprouted from between the reaver’s eyes, just as he raised his sword to deliver Cullen’s deathblow. He breathed a soft prayer to Andraste as he fumbled for the flask at his hip. Thick red liquid spilled into his mouth, recanting the effects of the magic and rendering him strong enough to fight again. 

He met eyes with Harding across the field. _“I’ll never live this down,”_ he said to himself, nodding a grim affirmation. She winked before turning away to fire upon another unsuspecting enemy.

The elven mage stood a few paces away, his mouth forming a thin line of concentration as he shielded himself from attack. Cullen reached for his grappling chain, yanking the mage across the field like a puppet on a string. A quick bash with his shield silenced him.

Surveying the field, it was clear their attack had been both quick and effective. The battle was already ending Those injured or dead were far outnumbered by those who had been captured or surrendered. His men had sequestered the elves into a tight circle at the center of the encampment. He sheathed his sword, catching the attention of a nearby captain.

“How many got away?”

The man had a thin face and pinched eyes, a mop of gold hair poking out like straw from beneath his helmet. “As far as we can tell, sir, none of them even attempted to run.”

Cullen frowned. It was unusual—there were typically a handful of deserters during any battle. He inventoried the captured: all were warriors and none appeared to be particularly elderly or children.

“There is only one reason at the front of my mind,” Cullen said slowly. “They knew we were coming.”

“Sir,” the captain started, “we caught them by surprise.”

“Or they made it to appear that way.”

“He’s a smart one,” one of the captured said with a snicker. Cullen turned, glaring at the elven female. She had long red hair pinned at the crown of her head and a shallow cut on her cheek. Clearly, this elf was a leader in some fashion by her posturing and decorum. The elf Cullen had fought and injured lay at her feet. She narrowed her eyes, her limber hands tying a cloth around the bloody lump on the woman's head. “You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

The woman’s hostility was expected; he knew lashing out in anger would only serve to encourage further dangling of key information.

“Apparently not,” he answered nonchalantly. “Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

She scoffed, though her eyes held no hint of a jest. “You’re as ignorant as our scouts said you’d be. We knew you were coming for days.”

“If that were so, then why did you allow yourselves to be captured?” he asked disarmingly.

She pressed her lips together, maintaining silent eye contact before turning to look away. Cullen found himself attracted to the elf, but her insubordination stole away any remaining interest, leaving behind only irritation.

“Separate her from the others,” Cullen commanded. “Turn them over to be questioned. Perhaps in time we can persuade our friend to inform us of their plans.”

“As for her,” he gestured to the red-headed leader, “give her to the lieutenant. She has a way with... _this_ type.”

The captain nodded understanding, relaying the orders to the men at hand.

Cullen stared at the imposing building and its many stone spires. Though the mystery behind the elves, the importance of this place, and its history of a great cataclysm remained, he thought the building itself was quite beautiful. Though he had never admitted it to anyone lest they label him, he had always been fond of elven architecture and culture. And despite their victory, he felt a great loss for the people who had been so scattered—so persecuted—for centuries.

 _“All this…for nothing. It was all a waste of time,”_ he thought. But his thoughts then rotated to Solas and hardened his resolve.

The elf, a god from ancient times, had hinted at total destruction. And caution be damned, he would not cease in his conquest to stop him, no matter the cost. He thought of the Inquisitor, an elf, and of her decision to protect Solas. He respected her and though he would never admit it openly, a part of him even loved her. But despite her wishes, he could never trust Solas again—let alone protect him. No: if he found him first, he would kill him. _Yes_ ….it was the only way to end this madness. His hand tightened into a fist as he resolutely turned away from the feelings that so troubled him.

 

* * *

 

The night was heavy, planted along her warm skin like the grain of a lover’s lips. The cool breath of the breeze made her gather her shawl around her shoulders; she tensed at the pleasurable, anticipatory shudder that ran down her spine. She could sense the Veil was paper thin here, pressing against her world like the wind on a spider’s web. Through the holes in its framework she could sense the spirits on the other side, both apprehensive and hopeful to pass through the delicate boundary between them. Lavellan reached out with her hand as if to touch the air, her fingers skimming the deep magic so intricately woven into the framework of Thedas.

Magic was everywhere, if one only cared to seek it out. Since she was a little girl she had sensed it in all things, both living and insentient. Perhaps it was her people’s affinity for magic that made it appear to her in this disseminated form. What it meant had little significance to her as she’d grown; the world had been loud, and she had grown distracted. But now, she was listening. 

Wind rushed through the crown of the trees, touched with ice borrowed from the high peaks of the snowcapped Frostbacks as it skipped away beyond the Hinterlands. Her hand withdrew as a gust strayed across her bare skin. She rubbed the gooseflesh from her residuum, pursing her lips as she shivered.

It was eleven days before the first crow arrived. Cullen had outlined the skirmish with the elves, detailing approximate losses on both sides with the tact and rigor of a military commander. She did not fault him for his apathy; it was a soldier’s way of maintaining strength through loss. She had been forced to learn this method as well after the fatalities at Haven.

Losses aside, what had concerned her most in the report were the number of captives. Skyhold had ample room; however no accord had been made with the elves. This meant each prisoner would have to be continuously guarded, fed, and housed. Those remaining soldiers loyal to the cause would need to be fed and sheltered as well.

The prospect gave her a headache. It also tasted of betrayal to keep her people—so persecuted already—in chains. Lavellan clenched her jaw, silently praying to her ancestors that Josephine would answer her summons. The woman had so many connections woven into the garment of her character that even a thread of insight would do to ease the knot forming between her shoulder blades. Though she had only sent the letter the day following the arrival of Cullen’s, she had immense confidence in Josephine’s ability to assist in whatever form.

 _“Sooner rather than later, I hope,”_ Lavellan thought.

A rise in the land ahead marked the beginning of a short escarpment, carpeted in moss and clumped grass. She liked this spot because it had a smooth, flat-topped stone recessed into the hillside that made an excellent place to sit. But she had not traveled here today with the intention of solitudinous pursuits. She carefully removed the elven artifact from a cloth bag astride her shoulder, placing it on the flat stone.

Solas had sensed these artifacts in areas where the Veil was thin. Moving the little wheels and geared handle in such a delicate and foreign way, he had tutored her in how to activate them.  She remembered how his hands had brushed hers like feathers on the wing of a bird, light and warm. He did not hesitate or tremble; his touch became strong, even familiar. His fingers were smooth and spindly, calloused hands familiar with combat and flame, but with precision delicate enough to stitch a wound.

He had taken her hands in his, moving through each motion as cleverly as an artificer. She remembered his smell, like fresh air, pine, mint, and the distant spice of clove or incense—she could never place it.

_“Ah, you have good insight, Vhenan, but it is more precise an instrument than you think. You do not need to pull the handle so far to the right. Here, let me show you—“_

Lavellan played the scene over in her mind as approached the artifact.

_“You must turn the wheel to the left. Listen for seven clicks—then turn the lever, there, by half.”_

His body had been so close to hers, the breath of his words tickling her ear. She had been distracted, slightly flustered, hoping the rose of her blush hadn’t reached her ear tips.

_“Once you have done this, simply reach out your hand with intention and the device will answer.”_

He had thrust her hand onto the smooth surface of the artifact. With his hand so firmly on hers, she could not focus on the instruction he had just given her. Nevertheless, she had felt the outpouring of magic as the artifact awakened, the light friction of its globe warming her hand as it turned. Its green light had a subtle, ancient glow that made her wonder at its making. Solas had said nothing of her distractedness, graciously offering the compliments made by one who loves to teach.

 _“You are a natural, Vhenan,”_ he smiled. His fingertips had drifted purposefully across her back as he stood to move away.

At the time, it had excited her. The lines he’d drawn with his hand felt like pleasant fire on her skin. She had wanted to kiss him so badly, to feel the fire spread from her mouth and down….

The scene faded from her mind, but the skin along her back tingled at the memory. He _still_ had some form of perverse power over her.

Lavellan went through the motions to activate the artifact, her face hot with embarrassment and anger. After she’d turned the lever a half turn, she placed her hand against the globe. She cleared her mind, exhaling as she willed the object to life. Yet, nothing happened. She repeated the process once, twice—three more times. Each attempt was met without success.

She picked up the artifact, tempted to throw it over the embankment in a vengeful rage. She realized she was breathing heavily, and forced down her urge for destruction. She wondered if she had missed a step; perhaps it wasn’t responding because of her handicap. She puzzled through the possibilities for half an hour longer before deciding to return to Skyhold.

Maybe the machine was broken. Or perhaps it had been sent to her as a misplaced joke. Whatever the case, she could not break free of the feeling that it was somehow important. Different, even. She needed to study it more closely. Perhaps Dorian would be available to scour out a few books on ancient elven culture in Tevinter. Any information they could glean would be better than what littler she already knew.

The night was deepening. Clouds had moved to blot out the stars and the moon. She carefully tucked the artifact into her bag before turning down the long road toward home, hoping there would be a hot bath waiting at its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could feed you my excuses or I could just tell you: I thought this was dead, but I will never give up on it. I spent months in the wilderness (literally) trying to puzzle through this. Okay, so they were daily nature hikes with my dog. But you get the jist! I have a clearer idea of where the story is going now so I feel like I can finally write on a more semi-regular basis. Thank you for reading and I hope there aren't too many abhorrent errors!  
> EDIT: There were some abhorrent errors. So I fixed them. Serves me right for posting without reviewing thoroughly first! 
> 
> Song(s) for this Chapter: **First Half:** _Snow Patrol_ \- [Fallen Empire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D54CzkBSiiY) / **Second Half:** _Above and Beyond_ \- [Filmic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lPesNb0anI8)


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